


well maybe I'm in love (love)

by spoonsoftea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Humour, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Short & Sweet, in this house we are bad at vulnerability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26243908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoonsoftea/pseuds/spoonsoftea
Summary: “Terrific,” said Crowley. He was beginning to make Aziraphale feel a bit dizzy. “Job well done, and all that. Stupidest idea you’ve ever had.”“This is all very romantic,” said Aziraphale dryly, and Crowley threw his hands in the air./Inspired by David Tennant's incomparable take: "But then Crowley absolutely loves Aziraphale," agreed David. "He hates that he loves him. It's really annoying for him."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 138





	well maybe I'm in love (love)

**Author's Note:**

> hello, longtime lurker and minimal contributor to the fandom here. i'm obsessed with this take on their relationship, because a) i think it suits them, and b) I vibe hard with it. may add more if the mood strikes.

It took nearly five thousand years for Aziraphale to suspect that whatever he felt for the Adversary was likely reciprocated. He dared to think it only in his most private thoughts, under the cover of a forgiving darkness. He had long known that Crowley was better company than any of the hundreds of millions of humans peopling the Earth, more enjoyable than any angel and cleverer than any demon. For nearly five thousand years, Aziraphale had fought with himself to balance his personal interest in Crowley with his professional obligations to Heaven. It wouldn’t do to forget that they were by nature hereditary enemies, something Crowley scoffed at when spoken aloud but never challenged by deed or action. Introducing an additional layer to a complex relationship was foolhardy, and it did not trouble Aziraphale to set his suspicions aside. 

The thought stayed aside for almost seventy years. It surfaced again only in 1066, when he ran into Crowley at an alehouse near Hastings. 

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, angel.”

Aziraphale looked to his left, startled. The demon was lounging against the bar, yellow eyes inscrutable but welcome nonetheless. Aziraphale felt the by-now expected leap of pleasure in his chest, then registered Crowley’s greeting.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” he huffed, but waved for another glass of ale for his companion. He got a proper look at Crowley, noting the amused but tired glint in his eye. “How did it go on your end?”

Crowley shrugged, accepting the offered ale. “Who’s to say? Whole thing’s a bloody mess, if you want my opinion.”

Privately, Aziraphale agreed. That was and had always had been part of the trouble with Crowley – their shared time on Earth led to far more shared perspective that could be found at either head office. Although Heaven, of course, always pursued what was Good and Right, and Aziraphale trusted in Her ineffable plan and its mysterious ways. 

Despite this, he couldn’t help but sigh. “King Harold’s dead, as I’m sure you know.”

“Course,” muttered Crowley, taking a hearty swallow of ale. “William’s over the bloody moon about it. Three thousand fewer men in his army, and defeated Harold in less than twelve hours? They’ll be calling him William the Conqueror one day, I’d bet my next commendation on it.”

“Do you know the worst part?” asked Aziraphale morosely. “All the bloody _French_. Everyone will be speaking it.”

Crowley was looking at him with that expression he sometimes had, amused and patient and perhaps just a little bit fond. “You always have been rubbish at French. Wasted your energy on Japanese.”

“It wasn’t wasted.” Aziraphale sniffed, even as he felt the tense set of his shoulder ease slightly with the familiar give and take of their banter. “I spent several years in Japan.”

“Lot of God-fearing folk in Japan, are there?” Crowley, too, seemed to be settling in, eyes glinting at Aziraphale over the rim of his cup. “Assignment from head office to spread the good word?”

“Not exactly,” muttered Aziraphale, but he watched Crowley out of the corner of eye and was pleased to see spark of amusement. Crowley had visited him after Aziraphale had been settled by the imperial court for a few years, and together they’d enjoyed soba noodles so delicious that Aziraphale remembered them to this day. 

“Come on,” said Crowley, abruptly draining his cup. “This place is more depressing than Hell, and I would know.”

Aziraphale protested, aware that he’d already gotten to his feet. “Where else –?”

“You can come to mine,” said Crowley. “I’ve got proper drink, anyway.”

That did seem promising, so Aziraphale followed him out the door. They went carefully through the streets, avoiding stray soldiers and looting men and women. Crowley gestured at a heavy wooden door down a quiet alley, so Aziraphale ducked inside and climbed the stairs to the second floor. 

“Not bad,” he said approvingly, looking around at the simple but comfortable furnishings. There was a bed, of course, because among Crowley’s many perplexing habits was his propensity to sleep. It looked somewhat lumpy, but serviceable. “Have you been here long?”

“Long enough,” said Crowley, removing his cloak and tossing it aside with a heavy sigh. “Too long, some would say. Hasn’t gotten any less damp over the centuries, has it?”

“I do miss Rome,” Aziraphale sighed, accepting the glass Crowley handed and taking an appreciative sip. “Oh, that is good.”

“Did you doubt me?” asked Crowley, settling himself in one of two wooden chairs and stretching. 

“Obviously,” said Aziraphale pointedly. “You’re a demon.” They shared a small smile and drank together, as if toasting. Crowley’s unerring ability to track down and transport the finest of alcohols was rivaled only by Aziraphale’s sixth sense for locating misprinted bibles – or would be, once the printing press was invented and such things began to be written. 

As he drank, Aziraphale felt the tension that had taken up residence in his shoulders begin to drain away. Often, just Crowley’s presence was sufficient to this purpose, something that had once puzzled the angel, then briefly but powerfully vexed him, and was now a simple fact of life no more remarkable than the creaky floorboards beneath his feet. It was a comforting, well-worn groove in his mind that had only recently been troubled by this new suspicion of his, which he had taken out of its mental box precisely once, sixty-six years ago. 

Aziraphale looked at his drink. “This is a favourite of mine,” he observed, quite without meaning to.

Crowley looked at him, brows raised. “Is it.” He did not sound surprised. 

Taking another sip to be sure, Aziraphale pursed his lips. He looked at Crowley’s sprawling human body, the long lines of it and its casual elegance. He looked at Crowley’s yellow eyes and his beaky nose. He opened his mouth to answer Crowley’s (admittedly rhetorical) question, and what came out was this: “Crowley, do you love me?”

Crowley made a sound like a duck being trod on by a horse. “ _Ack_ – ngk – I beg your pardon?”

Aziraphale’s resolve operated on a binary system, which is to say that under any given amount of pressure it possessed the structural integrity either of an eggshell or the will of God Herself. His shoulders squared. “Do you love me?”

“Tell the whole blessed world, why don’t you,” Crowley hissed, no longer lounging peacefully but coiled like a spring, leaning forward over his knees. “Are you out of your angelic mind?”

“That isn’t a no,” Aziraphale observed, and his heart, which had heretofore seen very little use, began to beat. 

Crowley surged to his feet and began to pace, running harried hands through his lovely hair. “For Hell’s sake, angel.”

“It’s only that I think you might,” Aziraphale said, watching the display of frenetic energy before him and trying to sound soothing. “I do apologize if I’m wrong, of course. I haven’t really given the matter sufficient thought.”

Crowley let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Haven’t you.”

“Only for the last seventy years or so,” admitted Aziraphale. “That was when I first suspected my feelings might be reciprocated.”

The rapid pacing paused quite suddenly. Crowley turned and met Aziraphale’s gaze with his own piercing stare. “Your feelings, hm?”

Feeling unaccountably flustered under the scrutiny, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Such as they are.”

“Oh, no,” said Crowley, pointing at him. “You’re not getting out of this one, angel. Not now. What feelings, exactly?”

“Well, you know,” said Aziraphale, embarrassed. This was the Adversary, after all. It didn’t do to go around loving one’s hereditary enemies. He’d just participated – nominally – in an entire battle where that had definitively not been the case. 

“No, I don’t," snapped Crowley, but he had at least stopped pacing. Perhaps Aziraphale’s white, perplexed face affected him, for a moment later he groaned and dropped into his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Look,” he said, “this is very annoying for me, if you must know. Not at all what I planned when I stopped by for a chat on that wall, you understand. Can’t be seen to be too fond of an angel, can I? Be the laughing stock of Hell, and my lot interpret that _very_ literally.”

“Oh my.” 

“Yes, _oh my_ ,” Crowley continued, getting up to pace again, but more sedately. “Also, it does make it difficult to be properly demonic on occasion. How am I supposed to con you into doing temptations for me if I’ve got to go around with – _feelings_?”

“How indeed,” commented Aziraphale. 

“We’ve got a very precarious Arrangement already,” Crowley continued, “and furthermore, I am an agent of the Evil One. This is already a very complicated situation, which you should be very conscious of and equally wary of upsetting.”

“I am,” said Aziraphale, a bit cross. “Surely you realize the situation is precarious for me as well.”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Crowley emphatically. “Which is why I do not go around blurting out every blessed thought that happens to be in my head.”

“That’s a bit uncalled for.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley reproachfully. “I only wanted to ascertain whether we were on the same page, as it were.”

“Terrific,” said Crowley. He was beginning to make Aziraphale feel a bit dizzy. “Job well done, and all that. Stupidest idea you’ve ever had.”

“This is all very romantic,” said Aziraphale dryly, and Crowley threw his hands in the air. 

“Could you, just once, be helpful?” he demanded. 

“I’m afraid not,” Aziraphale said, and got to his feet. Crowley eyed him warily. “My dear, I love you.”

“Heaven _bless it_ ,” swore Crowley, and kissed him. 

When the kiss ended, they were both flushed and glassy eyed. Crowley looked at the bed, then back at Aziraphale. “I hope you know,” he said weakly, “that I am never going to discuss this again.”

“I quite agree,” said Aziraphale, and proceeded to discover precisely how lumpy the bed was, and that it was, after all, quite serviceable.


End file.
